


Hippocratic Oath

by CypressKiss



Category: Batman - Fandom, DC Universe, Suicide Squad - Fandom
Genre: Batman - Freeform, F/M, Joker - Freeform, Suicide Squad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7770208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CypressKiss/pseuds/CypressKiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are well respected doctor in a small hospital outside of Gotham City. Being morally straight and successful at your job, you were given the position of being the personal physician for one of Gotham's most infamous residences. The Joker. Although you know what kind of man he is, you still aide him back to health as you swore you would for all your patients. However, things become tricky as the treatment carry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretty, Pretty Please?

There he lies on the hospital bed, just as you were told he would be. You laughed, at first, thinking it was a sick joke from your supervisor. This hospital is outside of Gotham City limits, there shouldn’t be a reason for _him_ to be lying in this bed. You step forward, standing tall at his vulnerability. Both legs are broken, he has lesions scattered about his flesh, slight burns along the left side of his body, and an apparent blunt force trauma to the side of his head. There are so many tubes coming out of him, bandages and stitches, the only way one would have guessed this could be the Joker would be the green hair. Not even his signature tattoos are visible. Most of them will be ruined after this mess is healed. 

You heart beats steady in a chaotic thought. This is the Clown Prince of Crime. The harbinger of calamity and death upon millions not only in Gotham but around the nation. He’s in your care now, you are his life support. In a way, you are God to this monster. You can take away his life so swiftly and do divine justice for everyone. Save Justice League the headache. The toppling of the Joker, who always seems to be the root of any sort of destruction the world may suffer, might, in theory, put an end to all of the world’s injustices. It might lie to rest the madness of other criminals out there. Lex Luther, Harley Quinn, The Penguin, who knows! Either way, he’s the big bad, right? 

You step even closer, looking down directly at him. You would just need to inject a small bubble of air into his IV. Introduce it to his blood stream. It would appear as an aneurysm which is a possibility to begin with considering the trauma. He’ll convulse and go to the sleep for good. 

Your hand is shaking. His face is so nude. Pale in a sickly grayish white color, but so bare. He’s lost his makeup and right now he reminds you more so of those suffering in the cancer clinic, without his eyebrows and dehydrated lips. You reach over the tubes. Slowly, you push a lock of green hair out of his face. This sad, pathetic little thing is the cause of so much trouble? 

“He’s just a man.” You whisper to yourself. Your hand drops into your coat pocket.

“That’s why he’s assigned to you.” A raspy, unfamiliar voice alerts. You gasp, jumping a bit as your twist around. You ease, realizing it's not one of his goons here to take your life. 

Batman moves from the dark corner of the room, walking in a strong but tired stature. He glances at the Joker. His face doesn’t change. You can’t really push out a single sentence of a greeting. Awe-struck in the presence of your long standing hero. Ever since he had rescued you from a burning building a few years back. You can only smile stupidly at him. 

“It wasn’t safe to keep him at Gotham General or at Arkham. He has too many connections, someone was bound to get hurt.” He looks down at the carnage.

“What happened to him?” You whisper, arms crossed over your chest. 

“Me, and then Harley Quinn.” Batman’s tired eyes meets yours. 

“I thought Harley Quinn was the love of his life?” You chuckle, remembering seeing the two on the news and feeling sick to your stomach, yet oddly hopeful. If two whack-jobs like them could find love, then by God so can you. 

“If by love you mean toy, then sure.” 

“Good for her, wising up. Where is she?” You fearfully question, hoping you don't have another person to nurse back to help. 

“On her way to a prison that doesn’t exist.” He turns with his cape, heading for the exit.

“Wait! Why am I assigned to him, exactly?” You chase after him. He pauses in the doorway.

“You’re one of the good ones.” He continues into the construction site of the third floor. 

******

You, your supervisor, and a Nurse named Lynn, were the only staff members aware of the Joker’s presence. The three of you had to sign legal binding documents to keep his stay a secret. If you mention a thing, you’d be looking at a very hefty lawsuit if he went missing or worse. Luckily, there is room available on the third floor among the renovation occurring. It is in the far back, hidden away from the construction workers who never cared to stray from their area work. He is perfectly hidden, kept as a great secret in this small hospital where rumors usually fly fast. 

A month has passed. He no longer needs the breathing tubes. You’ve taken up to reading out loud to him when there wasn’t much else to do. Out of pure caution your supervisor didn’t want you tending to other guests at this time, even though you were the best at what you do in the entire district. He wants full watch of the Joker, as if he could spring into action at any time. Which means you had a lot of time to spare. Currently, you are finishing up We Need to Talk About Kevin on your i-phone. 

“Wow,” You sniffle, wiping away a few of your tears at the end. “Talk about a shit storm of emotions.” You laugh a little. “I knew he loved his mom, solely, throughout the whole book. Remember, when I was reading the part where Eva confronted him about that virus? He was genuinely Kevin to her in that moment and it finally hit that he’s never put on a face in front of her. He was honest about himself. That’s the core of love, you know, you being your truest self with the other person. Favorite book, I would say.” You sit back in the visitor’s chair, sighing a bit. “Oh, you think so? Well, that’s an interesting look at it, too? Wow, Joker, I had no idea you were so deep.” You grab onto his bicep and give his arm a shake. 

You laugh, imagining the Joker being a secret literary junkie. That he owns a vast library so full that some books need to be piled on the floor. You laugh a bit harder at the thought of him crying into a small pocket poetry book. How hilarious would it be if the Jester of Genocide had a soft spot for Robert Frost? 

“Did he wake up and tell you a joke?” Lynn startles you. 

Picking yourself off of the seat you clear your throat, finding your composure rather quickly. 

“Not at all, I had imagined him with half decency and it made me laugh. Such a ludicrous thought.”

Nurse Lynn has no humor in that look of hers. She wields dark, tired eyes, all daggers in the Joker’s direction. She clutches onto her clipboard. 

“There is nothing that can be decent about this thing.” She seethes through clench teeth. 

You stride around the hospital bed. Planting a firm hand on her shoulder, you give her a small shake. You stare at her with warning, analyzing her petrified eyes.

“I’ll take your shift, tonight, Lynn.” You say in a demand. Her eyes pop, she inhales roughly before shaking her head and relaxing her shoulders. She giggles a bit, relieving you of your concerns. 

“No, you’re fine. I’m sorry I’ve just been on the edge lately. He’s-he-um-scares me still. I’ll be fine though. Trust me, you are the one who needs rest.” She places a kind hand on top of yours. Smiling, you slip your hand back into its pocket. 

“Alright, don’t work too hard.” 

******

You had walked the stairs down to the lobby. You said your goodbyes to the other unfortunate souls who stay this late. The security guard is waving you out the door when it hits you. You left your i-phone on the visitor’s chair. You groan loudly, turning a one-eighty.

“What’s wrong?” The security guard chortles, knowing this is the hundredth time you’ve forgotten to take something before leaving work. 

“My dang phone is up there.” You stomp towards the elevator, no way will you take the stairs a second time. 

You hear the security guard’s hard laughter as the doors slide shut. You laugh a bit yourself, riding that elevator to the third floor. Weaving through the hanging sheets of plastic, caution tape, maneuvering through the exposed pipes and gapes in the floor, you find the only room with the lights still on. 

“Hey, Lynn, I-what are you doing?” You shriek, stampeding towards her. 

She looks up at you with bulging eyes, hands still locked around the Joker’s neck. He convulses in the suffocation, gross gagging bubbles out of his throat as she tries to kill him. You try to pry her fingers off, yet the grip only tightens. 

“Let me kill him!” She roars. His movement stops. The heart monitor is flat lining. 

You elbow Lynn square in the nose. You not only feel bone breaking, but you hear it break too. She recoils, tumbling onto the floor as she clutches onto her face in sobs. She put you in an awful situation. Bound by your Hippocratic Oath, you have no choice but to fight your own sick desire for justice. You start the chest compression then gave him mouth to mouth. After the third mouth to mouth you ease at his sharp inhale of air. The familiar beeping of the heart monitor gives you relief. Pressing your palms into your temples, you take your time to turn around and face Lynn groveling on the floor. She snivels, standing on weak feet.

“I get it,” You start off, dropping your hands and straightening you back. “But, if you ever touch one of my patients like that, again, it will be you in a hospital bed. You get me? Don’t forget, you signed contracts and for the safety of those good people down stairs struggling to hold on, you are going to forget the Joker is even up here. Unless you want the death of those innocent souls on your conscience. Now, go down to the E.R. wing and get yourself cleaned up. You don’t exist on the third floor any longer.” You wave her off. 

She trembles around the bed, pausing at the foot of it. Her bloodshot eyes tremble as she looks down at the Joker’s face. Her skin pales in dread. You follow her stare and find that he is awake. Not only that, but he’s got his eyes locked on you. Lynn scurries out of the room without a second glance. 

“Good morning.” You greet him, folding your arms over your chest. 

“Wh-where am I?” His voice is a bit shaky, tender. 

“Use that pretty head of yours and take a guess.” 

“I don-I don’t know. I don’t know who I am or where I am.” His fluctuating voice hints fear. His chest moves up in down, hard frantic breaths. Even his eyes begin to water. “Are-are you going to hurt me? Please, don’t hurt me. Who am I?” He rises his voice, starting to fighting the restraints on his ankles and wrists. He freezes upon realizing the stability of the leather, locked, straps. Such terror paints his face as he looks up at you in that helpless gaze. 

You applaud him.

“You even squeezed out a tear. Joker, I think crime was not your line of business. I think you should audition for Broadway.” You nod your head, stepping closer. You put your hands onto his bed, on either side of his neck, right above his shoulders. 

“Please, I’m so scared. I don’t know what’s-”

You give him a hard slap across the face, turning his head for him. He rests his cheek on his pillow, gritting his teeth together. A low growl rumbles from his chest, tossing about his throat. He shifts under the sheets in a sly, sensual manner, before turning quickly up at you. You already have your hands on his shoulders so he couldn’t knock you out with his forehead as he had intended with such a swift motion. 

“I can tell you enjoyed that.” He rolls his hips up at you, smiling widely in your face. He licks the cracks of his lips. “Do it, again, go on, give me a good spanking.” He sets his head back into the pillow. His signature laughter bounces off the walls as you step back from his bed. 

“Well aren’t you just a charmer.” Your rest your hands in your pockets. 

“I am so much-”

“Uh-huh that’s very interesting.” 

His eyes widen at your lack of interest that beamed through your sarcastic comment. Completely infuriated by it he starts to struggle. That is the ticket to getting under his skin. Treating him as a boring, normal patient. It seems to be working so far, at least. He said some vague threat in your direction, that you honestly didn’t care to hear. 

“Mmm-hhmmm.” You comment as you head towards the cabinet.

He yells, thrashing about in his restraints. The strongest restraints in the hospital, locked with keys hanging around your neck and tucked into your blouse. He made the mistake of trying to thrash his legs. There is a pop and then an agonized exhale seeping out of his mouth. You walk back to his bed with a sedative in hand. He’s hunched over, head hanging off the side of his bed, away from you. 

“Regretting your actions there, buddy?” You inject the needle into his IV. 

“Wait until I am out of this hospital. Wait, sweetheart, you’ll get yours.” He cackles, still hunched in pain. 

“Mmm-hmmm, I know you are a big and scary guy, Joker. I am very scared of you, really I am. But, I just put some sedative in your IV and you will be knocked out in a minute or so. How about, you don’t lean off of the bed like that, okay?” If he’s going to act like a child, you will speak to him like a child.

He grunts something, but doesn’t budge. You couldn’t hear exactly what it was that he said, but you know he is asleep already by how limp his body became. 

Groaning, you slip a hand under his head, and another looped behind his back. You move him onto the bed in a comfortable position. Removing the sheet from his body you take a look at his leg that he did indeed damage further. 

You spend the entire night fixing him up. Returning home to your apartment to collapse on the couch in exhaustion as the sun started to rise. 

******

You are eating yogurt when the Joker finally shuts up. He attempted to taunt you the entire afternoon as you did your usual check-ups on him. You made sure not to be as gentle as usual, reveling in the small seconds of seethes replacing his annoying remarks. He eventually slammed his head into his pillow and stared hopelessly up at the ceiling in silence. 

“You know, this yogurt is pretty good and I’d love to share it, but somebody had to threaten me thirty different times, as well as make gross sexual innuendos, today. Now that certain someone doesn’t get this excellent blueberry yogurt.” It’s your turn to taunt him. 

He had nothing else in him physically, only a loud and long-lasting scream. One that was scratchy, stuffed with rage and aggravation. He pants heavily, finishing the therapeutic holler. 

“Do you … not like yogurt?” You chuckle, putting the empty cup and plastic spoon into the waste bin. 

You sit back down on the visitor’s chair, whipping out your i-phone to start a new book. The Joker has a stoic expression on his face, not making eye-contact with you. You doubt he actually is declaring defeat, but he wants to give you the idea that he is. Oh no, this maniac is still ticking away at thoughts of torture.

“Will you still read to me?” He mutters, turning his head so you could look at the back of it. 

“What?” You look up from your phone. He’s silent, trying to find the strength to let his walls down, a second time.

“Read to me, please.” He mumbles.

“Okay, um, sure, yeah I’ll read to you. Have you read The Bell Jar, before?” You inquire, secretly hoping that he is a book lover. 

He doesn’t respond verbally, only by the shake of his head. 

“It’s by Sylvia Plath, her poetry is phenomenal and I think you’d like some of her work. This book shows the decline of sanity, so I know you’ll like this at least.” 

You watch him attempt to roll over onto his side completely and failing because of the restraints. He lies limp, dramatically even. Keeping quiet, waiting for you to start the story. 

******

You maintain caution with the Joker, even in his complacency. He's either genuinely given up and is aware this situation will only get worse if he doesn’t behave or he is putting on a great act. Regardless, you know it’s only wise to keep a foot of distance between the two of you, physically and emotionally. You never answer his personal questions about your life, because you do not want to end up like Dr. Quinzel. The only thing he knows about you is your name, physical appearance, and what type of books you like. That is all he’ll ever know about you. 

You began physical therapy a week or so ago. That takes most of the time with him and left very little reading time. He’s been very cooperative which makes you anxious. You doubt this man has surrendered, but he’ll do what he cans to make you think he has. Or possibly, he’s just behaving himself so he can get the massage you unfortunately have to give his legs after working and stretching them. He’s even ceased from adding commentary each time you have to work on his thighs. You’d like for the moaning to stop, but he’s not the first patient to do that and its never usually intentional. Still, it seems vulgar when leaving the Joker’s lips. 

“You’re lucky you were in such great shape at the time of your injuries. Otherwise, you’d be in bed rest for a lot longer.” You recall the countless of times you’ve seen people melt in their beds as their physical strength wasn’t there to begin with. 

“Careful, you’re way too high on my thigh to start flirting with me.” The following moan is intentional. 

“I’m two inches away from your balls, do you honestly think it is wise to anger me?” You glare up at him.

His unique laugh is something you’ve grown used to. You can hear it anywhere, now, and be able to shrug it off as nothing more than background noise. So, as he laughs in this moment, you pay him no attention. You let him laugh himself quiet, which is when you are about finished with the massage.

“We can start walking, tomorrow. You’ll be chained of course, but your healing swiftly is all I meant.” You scowl, making your way to your belongings on the visitor’s chair. It’s become sort of your station. There is your bag, your laptop, your i-phone, all of which you take home at the end of the night. Either way, it’s like a second home you built next to him and this is what shakes you. 

“No, no, no, don’t leave so soon.” He starts to whine, doing the roll with his hips again that you’ve explained several of times is not good for his healing nor is it appropriate. 

“It’s late, I have a life outside of you.” You begin to pack your things. 

“Read me some of that poetry you said I would like. Come on, pretty, pretty please.” 

You hate the dramatic frown on his face. The way it’s so … human. You know it was all to make you laugh. He seems desperate to make you laugh, let down your rigid guard. You keep your lips pressed together as you take a seat on the now clear chair. You pull out your i-phone and start to read some Plath to him. 

******

He never has commentary on what you read. He’s only silent, it seems, after you finish a piece of writing. As if he’s sinking into what he had just heard. You feel like one of those cliché English Teacher tropes in a B-list movie about warming the heart of some troubled teenagers. It gives you a sense of accomplishment, how thoughtful he at least appears to be. This time, you stay longer than expected. He’s fallen asleep, quietly and without sedation. Which is a first.

Tossing your i-phone into your bag, you collect yourself, stepping around the hospital bed. You notice the sheets are around his hips from all of his insufferable squirming. Against your best judgement, you grab the top of the sheets and bring it up to his chin. You don’t mean to stand there and stare. It’s simply impossible not to. He’s very normal in this serene moment of slumber. His hair has gotten longer showing their dark reddish brown roots. His eyes are surrounded by dark circles from his relentless will against rest. It’s painful, the humanity in someone who is known to lack anything of the sort. 

“Who are you, really?” You move some of his hair out of his face. Your hand lingers on his sharp jaw structure. You run your thumb across his cheek. 

“Jerome.” He breathes out, opening his eyes but not looking at you. He’s staring far into the past, his face softening in the breath of his own confession. He blinks slowly before his eyes shift to your eyes. 

Horror spills cold sweat onto you. He moves his face closer into your touch, and you like it. You break away from him, sprinting out of the room. 

******

 

You ask your cat if you should inform Commissioner Gordon that you know the first name of the Joker. She meows and curls next to you on her designated couch pillow. You eat a spoonful of ice cream, unable to sleep. 

“It’s mine, though.” You whisper into frosty chocolate. It’s an strange sort of gift, an underlining token of trust. He gave you his name.

You run to your bag, removing your lap-top. No way a guy like that _didn’t_ get into trouble as a kid. You snoop around, playing with google a bit. Looking for acts of crimes committed by a Jerome a decade or so ago. It takes you an hour but you find something about a young Jerome Valeska who murdered his fortune teller mother at a young age of eighteen. Apparently, him and some escaped Arkham inmates went around town stirring up all sorts of chaos. You scroll down and saw a mugshot of the red headed menace. There is no doubt in your damn mind that is the Joker. However, this source says he was shot and killed at a banquet. You swallow hard, knowing that is probably why no one has ever made the connection prior. Jerome is dead, but the Joker is still alive.

You delete your history, close the window, shut down your lap-top and decided to sleep on the couch with your cat, tonight.

******

Obviously, his hands and ankles are still chained. He’s standing very well and can do so on his own, now. He claims it doesn’t cause him discomfort, but you doubt that. It’s week two of walking and he’ll be on his feet in reasonable condition by Friday. Still, he keeps his hands on your wrists and you guide him as he shuffles his feet along the linoleum. He could have tried to hurt you several of times. Whip the chain around your neck, strangle you until you were unconscious and take the keys you wore as a necklace. And yet, he hasn’t made a single move. 

He watches his feet move just as you do, and you notice this is almost how an animal behaves when captured while injured. Sure they are aggressive and want to go back to the wild, but they understand the human is there to help them, aide them to health. Therefore, they only nip but never bite. Fortunately, the Joker isn’t a capture and release case. He’ll be in Arkham until he’s old and rotted. 

Why does that thought upset you?

“You’re doing great.” You assure him as you walk backwards towards his bed. 

He only looks up at you and smile all of those sparkling silver teeth. You learned they are there because of Batman, who seems to take joy in picking teeth out of his knuckles. You guide the Joker to the edge of his bed and let him sit there for a moment. It’s a gutsy move on your part, sitting beside him so closely. Sure there’s a few inches between the two of you, but its close enough for an attack. You are putting trust in his hands as he did when he gave you his name. The chains sing gently as he leisurely slides his hand towards yours. You feel the tip of his fingers graze your flesh and it freezes you. You look straight ahead. In your peripheral, you see him inch his face towards yours. 

He continued to try to hold your hand even as you jump up from the bed at the sound of screaming and automatic gunshots. The sound must be so normal to him that he hasn’t noticed it. 

“What the fuck?” You hurry to the lights, shutting them off immediately. 

Hand on the handle, you are about to slam the door and lock it, but a large man dressed in a fine suit pushes you back fiercely. You land on your back, dizzy in the Joker’s maniacal laughter. You pick yourself up, running towards the drawer where the scalpels are kept. One goon tries to grab you and you blindly swipe at his face, unknowingly cutting open an eye of his. He shrieks, falling backwards, another one keeps his distance but points his machine gun at your face.

“Don’t shoot quite yet.” His low grumble of a voice is all you hear in the sea of cries coming from below.

“You okay, boss?” The finely dressed man asks as though he had real concern. 

“Johnny-boy.” The Joker slaps either side of the man’s forearms, throwing his head back in a laughter at the sight of his henchmen. “What took you so long?”

“Had to make a lot of people squeal, until one piggy squealed something useful.” Johnny didn’t smile or laugh, he is cold faced, solely professional. 

Your heart sinks as you recall the absence of Nurse Lynn. You shift your other hand in your pocket, already pressing the speed dial for Commissioner Gordon.

“Sweet doctor.” He stands, shuffling towards you with no assistance necessary. Johnny reaches you before him, grabbing your wrist and squeezing it until you have to let go of the scalpel. The Joker stands in front of you and jiggles his chains, looking at you with the same puppy-dog face that go you to read to him. “Pretty, pretty please.” 

Clenching your jaw, you removed the necklace of keys. You squat down, freeing the locks around his ankles. Rising, you unlock the cuffs around his wrists. He rubs at his skin as though they’ve never known touch aside from metal. 

“We can have more fun this way.” He speaks lowly, only loud enough for you to hear.

He snatches your neck, slamming you into the wall you were already backed against. It surprises you how quickly he jolts forward, his body pressing firmly against yours. He has you pinned. Hand still firm around your neck, loose enough to allow to breath, he takes a big inhale of your hair, throwing his head back as he exhales. He shook about and made a sound that is similar to a bark, before pressing himself against your once more. You can feel all of him and that is exactly how he wants it. 

“I want to have fun with you. I do, I want to have fun with you.” He breathes into your ear. 

“Jerome, please.” You whisper for only him to hear.

“Boss, we gotta go!” Johnny shouts at the sound of distant sirens. 

The Joker doesn’t seem to hear him. His hands are on the sides of your teary face. He’s staring you in the eyes the same manner he’d look up at the ceiling at the end of each work of literature. 

“Another time.” 

He knocks your head against the wall. You remember his laughter before everything goes black.


	2. We Need to Talk About The Joker

Newspapers and magazines had one of two pictures of you on their covers. The one in which you are being carried by Batman, away from a burning hospital. Your face rolled to its side, revealing a kiss print on your face. Or the picture of where they found you at the front of the hospital, sitting unconsciously in a wheelchair, kiss print still visible. It didn’t matter which picture chosen. They all had the same headline. 

_Gotham’s New Harley Quinn?_

You remember the chill of Gotham’s PD interrogation room. You sat in the corner on floor. Legs pressed against your chest, you hugged onto them for dear life. Batman had sat next to you, wrapping a blanket over your shuddering body. He rubbed small circles on your back and didn’t mind when you rested your head on his shoulder. 

“Nothing the Joker did or does is your fault.” He assured you.

The hospital was blown up. You were the only survivor. It sure did feel like your fault.

“Listen to me, the Joker is a sick man and lives off of having power over others. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

You looked up at him, and knew exactly what he was thinking. He was concerned that you were going to throw on a stupid motley and run around Gotham blowing shit up. You nodded your head at him, hurt that he would even consider such a possibility for you. 

“Don’t worry, my psyche is intact. I gave him nothing personal to own me with.” 

But he gave _you_ something. Something huge. A name that you could give to Batman or Jim Gordon. So why were you choking on it? Caught in your throat like a confession of guilt. You weakly smiled at the Dark Knight, thanking him for saving you.

One month after the incident, Harley Quinn managed to escape prison. She was a teary eyed wreck and put you in the hospital for stitches and a busted rib. You had held up your own very well. If it wasn’t for you talking to her, calming her, she would have had your head. She was horrified of losing her identity and in some sick way she was horrified of another girl being victimized by the Joker, as she was.

“Harley, you have all the power in this situation. He hurt me and people I love. I don’t even remember his face. He means nothing to me. You’re the strong one, you’re the one who’s face I’ll remember.” Her shoulders dropped just a bit before Batman swept into the abandoned building she kept you at and took care of the rest. 

You had meant to attend that court hearing, but a sick feeling of guilt took over you, forcing you to stay in bed all day. You even called into your new job at Gotham General. They understood and offered more than a day off. You respectfully declined, showing up the next day with a new phone number so Jim Gordon could no longer call you. 

Five months had passed in total since the hospital explosion. You poured yourself into your work, becoming quite the socialite. So much so, you even managed to get in touch with the right people and create a banquet to support the families of the loved ones lost in the hospital explosion. You had a new face in the newspaper. A face that is coherent, strong, confident. Gotham and even Metropolis papers are eating up your image. 

This rebirth should excite you. There is no reason for you to be hiding away in the restroom of your own charity banquet. Your hands shake as you slip pills in them for your reoccurring anxiety. You remove your lace masquerade mask and stare at your reflection in the gold lit mirror. Dry swallowing the pill before shoveling down water from the faucet to ease the burning sensation in your throat. You sigh, looking at your dolled up self. You are gorgeous on the outside and you should feel beautiful on the inside. Yet, there is a rock in your stomach. One that rolls and rumbles as it says his name, his _real_ name, over and over again. 

A knocking on the bathroom door alerts you. You jump, tying the black butterfly mask back onto your face. 

“Come in, I’m finished.” You straighten yourself up as Bruce Wayne opens the door. “Wow, you look lavishing.” You smirk, folding your arms over that sore stomach of remorse. 

“It’s the mask, it hides all of my features.” He smiles, slipping it off of his face. 

“It really did. Put it back on!” You joke. “I’ll get out of your way.” You attempt to slide pass him, but he purposely steps in your way. 

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you in private.” 

“Were you?” You lean against the wall as he shuts the bathroom door.

“Are you doing okay?” He leans against the door, relaxing with you. 

Your matte crimson lips spread into a slim, flirt of a smile. Bruce had been one of your new friends. One with a lot of friends, with a lot of money,who were glad to come to tonight’s banquet in their expensive masquerade gowns and tuxedos. The thousands they donate are pocket change, anyways, as well as tax write-offs. 

“You’re too sweet to be a billionaire playboy, Bruce.” 

“So I’ve been told.” He coyly smiles, flattering you. “You don’t need to put up a front with me. We can leave, if you want.” 

He was serious and you should have been serious about his offer. You should have thrown yourself into his arms and ask him to whisk you away from Gotham and never look back. The two of you can live in Paris and not have to worry about criminally insane clowns ever again. 

“I appreciate that, Bruce. But, I have guests to entertain. I’ll take you up for coffee, later, though.” You wink at him, stepping pass as he opens the door for you. 

“Coffee it is.” He steps aside, letting you go. Watching you walk away. 

You step to the masses dancing wildly in their drunken haze. They were enjoying themselves and donating more and more to the cause with each drink they downed. Your hopes are to pay enough to help each family get out of debt for the rest of the lives and their grandchildren’s lives. Maybe that would ease you. You make the mistake of stepping into the dance floor. 

You find yourself tossed from dance partner to dance partner, until you are the center of the crowd. There waiting is a man with a red Devil’s mask attached to black cloth that covered all of his head and tucked into the collar of his white, buttoned up dress shirt. Her wore jeans and sneakers. The entire outfit bothered you greatly. Mostly because its familiar and you can’t understand how or why it is familiar. He holds his hand out for you. Becoming accustomed to pleasing others, you slip your hands into his and let him lead. 

This guest dances with sensuality, almost worship to his partner as he commands each movement as though it is a calculated ritual. You unfold in his touch, allowing him to search your body with his clever hands. He runs his fingers across your abs, able to feel the scars Harley left through the silk of your dress. He purrs at how you push yourself against his chest, his hand sliding down your spine, resting between the dimples just above your cheeks. He dips you, and you want to see his eyes but its impossible in the dim lit dance floor. You are both entranced and disturbed at the affectionate touches and familiarity of this guest. He spins you out, catching you to where your back is against his chest. 

One hand is wrapped around your waist. The other has its hold on your neck. It slips down to your collarbone, lower. Running leisurely over your breasts. Resting just beneath your navel, clutching onto the fabric of your dress. You can tell by the growls rumbling in his throat, whoever this one wanted to take you right then on the dance floor. You snatch his hands, tearing them off of you. Stepping forward, you catch your breath before turning to face the stranger. When you do, he is no longer there. Vanished in the dancing crowd. 

“Excuse me, are you the one in charge of this banquet?” A waitress interrupts your curiosity. You turn to look at her. 

“Yes, why?” You frown at her moist, worried eyes. 

“Some guests are wondering why you put thick bike locks on all of the exits. Do you have the keys to remove them? They're becoming angry.” She peeps. 

The white button up shirt, the jeans, the sneakers ... bike locks. The room starts spinning. The music distorting into a low hum of an instrumental downpour. You waver, catching yourself from falling over. You know exactly who the man in the Devil's mask is. 

“We need to talk about Kevin.” You wheeze, understanding exactly what events will unfold.

“Who is Kevin, miss?” 

The lights shut off. There is a roar of cheers and applaud in the dark. A spotlight hits the stage where the guests had suspected to see you standing there to give a speech. Instead, it is the man in Devil's mask. He has his arms stretch wide, giving little bows to the crowd that eats up the performance. You are frozen, noticing the bow in his hand and the leather slash across his chest, holding up the case of arrows hanging from his back.

The first arrow shot happens too fast, whizzing past your face and hitting a fat cat in the throat. You fall to your knees as he shoots more arrows at guests now panicking, scattering to locked doors. Fish in a barrel. He doesn’t need to remove his mask for you to know its him. The laughter alone is a giveaway, but he takes off his mask, nonetheless. A few of his henchmen hidden as guests, remove guns from their jackets and begin shooting. 

You refuse to play victim, leaping from the floor to tackle one of the goons, wrestling the gun out of his hand. You get him good between the legs, he keels over and falls with a heavy thud. Another goon tries to attack you from behind. He’s taken out, swiftly, by the surprising appearance of the Batman. You step back, letting him take out the shooters. Of course, it’s when your guard is down that the Joker makes his move.

The Joker has a stern arm around your chest, a sharp arrow head pressed against your neck. He sidesteps, almost dancing with the Batman who now gives the Joker his full attention. The henchmen were down for the count, anyways.

“Your favorite book.” He whispers into your ear, cutting the lace ribbon that tied your mask. It falls, bouncing off the tip of your toes. You look at Batman, helpless. “Darling, I thought you knew I had a plan?” A helicopter can be heard pounding outside. He takes the gun from your hand, shooting at the window. It shatters, opening up for a clear jump. “You can try to stop me, or you can search for the bomb here, somewhere, I think. You know, I have the worst memory. I couldn’t tell you where it is or if there's just one!” He laughs, hustling towards the open window with you in his arms. 

“Let her go.” The Bat curls his hands into fists. 

“It’s fine. I’ll be okay. Help these people, first, please.” You tell him as the winds of high altitude beat against you. The Joker tosses you into the air. You are lazily caught by Johnny right as the Joker leaps into the helicopter. As they begin to soar out of sight, you are thankful to find that Batman took your advice and began searching for the bomb. 

The Joker has his hand smoothing back your hair, lips to your ear. 

“I told you, I want to have fun with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what's going to happen next?


	3. Internal

You awake in a car driving down the back alleys of Gotham. You’re handcuffed, head resting against the door window. When consciousness fully seeps in, you crouch forward in agony, feeling sharp pain in the back of your head from when he had knocked you out. He only noticed the glint of intent in your eyes, thinking of ways to hurt them in the helicopter, whether it meant your death as well. That was enough motivation for him to pistol whip you in the back of the head. 

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He grips your chin, throwing you back into the seat. 

“Just kill me already.” You snap, his hand slides onto your neck, stealing air out of you. 

He slides closer, as if he wasn’t already breaking personal boundaries. You can feel his breath on your cheek as he laughs directly in your face, slow and mocking. His other hand finds your knee, beneath the dress. He inches up your thigh. 

“Did you miss me?” His hand squeezes the inside of your thigh. 

“Like in an infectious disease.” You hiss.

His laughter is damage in your ear. Slamming your head against the window, he tosses you to the floor in a dizzy haze. You lie there, glaring up at him through the mess of your hair. He sucks at his teeth, arms and legs sprawled on the seat as he stares out the window. He lets you lie there, kicking you each time your try to move. It’s not until the car stops that he allows for anything more. He slaps a hand on the back of your neck, jerking you off of the floor, taking you along. 

“Boss, are you sure it’s a good idea to be taking her?” One of his men inquires. The Joker doesn’t even look at the poor kid as he takes out his pistol and shoots him dead center in the forehead. 

He drags you inside the back entrance of a club. You only catch a flash of the lights, swaying bodies and music, before his men kick down a door to the left. He lugs you down a narrow staircase, the air changing dramatically. Stiff, cold air clinging onto your skin as you make the decline. The odd smell of fish and gunpowder. On the final step, you're brought to a small room. There’s a round table that a few men sat at, cards in hand. They dressed in sharp, expensive suits, not at all impressed with the Joker’s choice of outfit for the evening. One man frowns particularly in his vision, mostly when seeing you being dragged along. The large man shakes his head, pouring himself a glass of scotch. 

“Joker.” The man speaks in a heavy accent. His eyes fall on you, the corner of his lips falling. “Who is this?” He throws a hand in your direction. 

“Who is this?” The Joker clutches your chin, “This if the fire of my loins.” 

He kisses you roughly on the open mouth. Fingers sprawling down your back as you’re tightened against him. He growls in the departing of your lips. Snatching locks of your hair, yanking your head back, he licks you from your collarbone to your cheek. His hysteric laugh sticks to the walls of the room. 

“Are you going to share?” One of the men at the table remark. 

You hear snickering coming from the table, but the sound is soon drowned out by the intense and sudden change in the Joker’s demeanor. A white hot rage sweeps over him. He turns around with his gun. It serves as cue for him and his boys to take out the men at the table. Only leaving the one who had spoken first. His hands are up, scowling in the betrayal. 

“The Penguin isn’t going to be pleased about this.” He barks out a useless threat. 

The Joker throws his head back, guffawing at the man who thinks the Penguin could be intimidating against the likes of him. He grabs the flimsy table, flipping it out of his way. The bottle shatters, falling in pieces as the cards flutter gently upon the corpses of gangsters. He sticks the mouth of his gun into the man’s cheek, dragging it along his jaw. 

“I’m not planning on doing business with him. I know, that you know, where _it_ is. I’m going to make your tell me.” He right-hooks the man, catching him before he falls of his chair. 

“Hit me all you want. You’ll get nothing.” He chuckles, spitting a wad of blood onto the Joker’s shoes. One of the Joker’s goons handcuffs the accented man to the chair, keeping him there for the beating. 

He won’t give anything up, you can see it in his eyes this man had to have been some type of mercenary in the past. His mornings must have started off with a beating, going to sleep with a cool punch to the back of the head. You know this, because you’ve aided men like this before. The ones who casually walk into the E.R. with a skull cracked open. Only to find out they had driven themselves and even kept a steady conversation with the nurse at the check-in desk. And its these men who collapse the quickest when they come in for a kidney stone. It’s not external pain that will break him. 

“Stop!” You holler, catching the Joker’s attention. He looks at you, pass his shoulder, with a snarled lip, waiting for you to beg. “That-that won’t work on him.” You speak weakly, watching your morality join the dead on the floor. There’s no way out of this other than to play along. You know it to be true. Even if it goes against all of your ethics, it’s your life on the line. Fight another day. 

The Joker snaps his fingers, having his men swarm the guy with their guns pointed at him point blank. He tilts your head up with the tip of his fingers. You keep your eyes down. 

“Hey,” he shakes you, dragging your sights to his face. “what was that?” 

“Look at him, Joker, he’s born from abusive hands. Beating him won’t work. He needs a different kind of torture to make him talk.” You're sickened by the taste of your words. 

He slaps both of his hands onto your face, turning around to laugh at the whole room. Mostly to laugh at Johnny who must have had some doubts in your contribution to this shit pack of a gang. The Joker quivers, his head lulling back as he takes in a victory. 

“I want you to hurt him.” He snarls, walking behind you to remove the cuffs. 

You rub at your bruised wrists. Eyes trailing up the pavement, following up the man’s feet to his face lathered in primal anger and determination. He looks at you with such eyes, only to break into laughter. 

“What are you going to do? Scratch me with your pretty nails?” He chuckles, coughing up blood, spitting it onto the floor where some of his teeth rest. 

“I need a stick of some sort.” You murmur. Johnny breaks the leg off of one of the chairs, handing it to you. You flip it to the blunt side. “Open his shirt, please.” 

The numbness of rushing anxiety keeps your palms sweaty. They rip apart his shirt and he laughs at you, thinking of the whole thing as a joke. Especially, considering you have chosen to point the blunt side in his direction. You stand, squeezing the broken chair leg. Your in place to help people, not to do _this_. It’s as if your soul itself is outside of you, blocking you for inflecting harm. You can’t move.

“Jesus Christ.” The man laughs hysterically, looking at the henchmen who twist in their embarrassment. 

You can’t hear the man’s laughter. Your throbbing heart is deafening. Eyes swelling in the tears of reluctance, you feel the same as you did upon your first failure of an exam. If only you could shrink. If only you could disappear. 

The Joker’s hands finds your shoulders, clawing you out of your nerves. His hands are tender to slide up your neck, running through your hair. Softly, he tilts your head up and the sound of your anxiety quiets in his voice. 

“Go on.” 

You move out of his hands. Crouching beside the man, you examine the side of his torso, finding the exact spot you were looking for. 

“You’re going to feel some discomfort.” You hold the broken chair leg like a pool stick, you give him a quick, steady jab in one small location. 

The man waits for a second, until he realizes he feels nothing. He’s in a riot, not hearing you count backwards from thirty. The moment your voice lands on one, his laughter is cut dry, as if someone had immediately pressed paused on his voice. The veins in his face start to pop as he turns red. His muscles are tensing. His neck stretches out and he opens his mouth wide, a silent scream. Squinting his eyes shut, he convulses, howling in unimaginable agony. You walk around him, looking for another button to press. 

“Please! Please, make it stop!” His voice’s pitch heightens. You hesitate, seeing the tears leaking down his cheek. 

“Tell me what I want to know and we can all go home.” The Joker crouches in front of him, rubbing at his bald head. 

“Scarecrow! Scarecrow didn’t give it to him. The scarecrow backed out, he still has the serum!” The man weeps, thrashing his body around as a child would in a store when refused his favorite snack. “Make this stop!” 

“The pain will stop in about-”

Blood and specks of brain paint your face, ending your sentence. The Joker has answered the man’s prayers, putting a gun under his chin and pulling the trigger. You're hugging the chair leg, now, holding it as you would a security blanket. Your speechless at how calmly the Joker rises from the floor. Entirely unmoved at the blood and pieces of person that colored his own face. He steps towards you, smiling, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You move in petrified, short motions, as he guides you up the stairs. 

******

Warm water rushes down the front of your body. For the night, they’re taking refuge in a shabby motel on the rougher-than-normal side of Gotham. You don’t know what was said, or how you got there, you only saw a hotel room with a bathroom and took sanctuary. You can hear his laughter and gun shots outside of the bathroom door. You try to ignore it, washing the blood from your face and neck. 

You tremble in the steam, part of you wants to be next to eat one of his bullets. You were the one who caused that man true pain. You made another human being suffer and hadn’t done a thing to stop his murder. The most disgusting part of the entire recollection is the desire to do it again. To shove doubt back into another’s person face with your unlimited knowledge of their own anatomy. You could break anyone, if you really wanted to. Have complete power over an individual. 

You jump as the foggy glass door open. The Joker’s face is still covered with blood. Not once does he look at your body when he enters the shower, shutting the glass door behind him. He’s peering into your eyes, holding you still before moving in to kiss you slowly.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. He searches your body with eager hands, needing to feel your flesh drenched against his own. You roll your hips against his, drinking in his groans of pleasure, quivering against his hard cock, your body screams out to be taken by him. You reach out to touch, but he stops your hand, pulling away from you. He traces his thumb over your lips. He’s unwavering, reciting:

“Sickness begins here: I am a dartboard for witches. Only the devil can eat the devil out.” 

He keeps eye contact with you, lowering to his knees. He parts your thighs, burying his face between your legs. His tongue flicks at your clit, teasing you as you assumed that he would, until he takes your opening with all of his mouth. He moves in such skill you feel as though your legs will collapse. Hands reaching for the showerhead, you tighten your eyes shut. Ecstasy pulses up your thighs, following your spine all the way to your head. The shower is spinning, he uses his fingers to find your g-spot pressing on it as he continues to taste you. Heat consumes your thighs, your twitching slightly in the intensity of the pleasure

“Say that you're mine.” He uses only his fingers now and manages to make you nearly drop. You're so close, you can't have him stop now. “Say it.” He looks up at you with an expression you have not seen him wear prior. He’s neither mischievous, nor hostile, he has a yearning in his eyes that makes you wonder if he needs you to need him more so than the other way around. 

“I’m yours.” You breathe out, climaxing at the tip of his fingers. 

He plants a kiss just below your belly button, before standing to leave. Your left breathless, sliding onto the shower floor, watching him walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, using a line from my favorite Sylvia Plath poem to transition into an oral sex scene, is probably the proudest moment in my entire writing career. Hands down. Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you for reading thus far! More is to come!


	4. Just Human

There has been plenty of talks behind closed doors in the past few weeks. Low whispers out of your hearing range. You’ve been going mad, being dragged around from man to man. The Joker hasn’t touched you in the way you wanted him to since that moment in the shower, nor does he speak to you much. Mostly, you’re his favorite shiny new weapon. The key to unlock any knowledge one might be keeping from him. The last man was the winner. So much so, the Joker even kissed you on the forehead before shoving you into the arms of Johnny who kept you in sights at all times. 

“I knew Doctor Crane.” You smile, sitting on the bed of the fifth different motel room in the last three weeks. Johnny sat on the floor, smoking cigarettes collectively. 

“Who?” 

“The Scarecrow.” You groan, rolling over in the sheets. “We went to the same graduate school. We were mostly drinking and arguing buddies. Our disputes were legendary at the local bars. Always ending in a shared pitcher of cheap beer. It was really hard to accept what he had become.” You stare at the ceiling fan, leaving out fine details. 

“What did you argue about with him?” Johnny leans his head onto the mattress. 

“Mostly politics because we were pretentious youths,” You chuckle, remembering the excitement of baffling the locals with your big words. “Sometimes about things we actually were passionate about. Like the human mind and body. Funny, looking back at his statements I’m not surprised he became who he is now.” 

“Do you think he’d be surprised in what you became, Good Doctor?” Johnny lights another cigarette. 

You cringe, giving him a miserable scowl that prompts a quick apology for even the thought of calling you that. 

“I think he’d be having a good laugh, more so than being surprised. I always took the high ground of morality in our disputes. It aggravated him, that he never found any darkness in me. Not with all of his psychological tricks.” You roll over, back to Johnny. 

The door to the room opens. You hear Johnny fumble to a stand. He greets the boss and they speak in quiet tones, but its obvious the Joker is the least bit happy with the news he’s received after speaking with Scarecrow. Air drops from your lips, sitting up to see the Joker waving Johnny out of the room.

Immediately after, the Joker picks up an empty bottle of Jack and shatters it against the wall, screaming at a ghost. Swinging your legs off the foot of the mattress, you watch him violently stab the cushioned chair near the telephone desk until he is out of breath. Smoothing back his hair, he rolls his head, hesitantly moving towards you. He lies on the edge of the bed, resting his head on your lap. 

“Dr. Crane has that affect on people.” You mention, tracing your fingers through the locks of his hair. 

“I need kryptonite.” He snarls into your thigh, running his fingertips on your knees. “Where the fuck am I going to get kryptonite?” 

“That’s easy, I can get you kryptonite.” You’re not surprised at how quickly he changes. 

One moment his head is on your lap, and in this moment he is on top of you, hands strangled around your neck. You look at him with dead eyes, indifferent and nearly hoping that he just finishes you off already. At least it would shake you out of this nightmare. 

“You’re telling me this now?” He shrieks, tossing you onto the floor. 

He tries to kick you, but you manage to roll out of the way of his foot. You scatter to your feet, giving him a look that is just asking him to try you. He throws his head back in laughter. 

“I can’t read your psychotic mind, Joker, I had no idea you were in need of kryptonite!” You stomp your feet at him. 

“Who isn’t in need of kryptonite?” He shakes his hands at you. 

“Oh please.” You scoff. 

He smooths out his attitude, leisurely approaching you as one would when greeting a frightened, snarling dog. He presses you into the wall with his body, hands grabbing the ends of your white, silk dress, lifting it up your thighs. Purring at the softness of your flesh. You become red in the face, unable to look him in the eyes. 

“Want to do me a favor, doc?” He breathes against your neck, kissing you softly. You gulp, saying nothing more. “Tell me what we have to do to get some kryptonite.” 

 

******

It took about an hour to convince him that there are indeed scalpels with kryptonite blades located in Gotham General. Only certain authority figures had the knowledge and access to such utensils. They were donated by the Dark Knight, himself, incase an emergency ever swept over Superman that involved the big boy in red in and blue going under the knife. He was most skeptical of the whole thing considering he never head of it. And you laughed, because why in the world would that be public knowledge? 

He agreed. 

It’s one in the morning, you’ve been sitting in the car with him and Johnny for a good few hours, staking out Gotham General. 

“Show time.” He whispers to you, opening the door. 

You told him you would sneak in through the back, take the janitorial route to the safe where the scalpels were kept. His eyes are on you like a hawk as you move out of the car. You walk towards the alley, wearing jeans and a sweater with the hood over your head. 

You punch the keys on the keypad of the back entrance, slipping through the doorway. Doctors and nurses alike all turn to look at you, coffees getting cold in their hands. You collapse to your knees, removing the hood from your head. Your face alone is alert for each person in the room to whip out their phones, dialing 9-1-1. 

“Oh my god, we thought you were dead.” The doctors who rushed to you all chime. They immediately look at your eyes, making sure you were not drugged. “How did you escape?” 

“He thinks there’s kryptonite scalpels here. I told him I would get them for him. He’s waiting in a car, in the alley across the street. Get all of the help you can! Please!” 

******

The entire G.P.D. had shown up, and their sirens could have been heard a mile away which is why they weren’t able to capture the Joker. The moment him and Johnny heard the police sirens, they sped from the scene. You had your head covered in a hood when the reporters showed up, not wanting your face in the papers anymore. Jim doesn’t cuff you as he keeps you in the interrogation room. He has a file he’s reading through, sitting across from you at the cold table. You hold onto the cup of coffee he gave you, watching him read files about you. 

“The Good Doctor, huh?” He rubs at his facial hair. He looks up at you with tormented eyes. Nothing about Gordon has ever been cheery, not after what happened to Barbara. 

“Please, don’t make me relive that.” You speak into the coffee. 

“Some nasty things are going around about you.” He’s skeptical, at least he wants you to believe that he is. If he truly had doubts, he would have cuffed you. 

“I had to do horrible things to get away from him.” You shiver, unable to look him. You sniffle, feeling your heart sinking at all of the sins you’ve committed. “Oh God, I’m going to die. He’s going to find me and skin me alive.” You start to hyperventilate. 

“Don’t worry, doctor, I have a friend who can help you.” He mutters, looking at his watch. 

“He has friends! He has a lot of friends, crawling around even in this precinct like roaches!” You rise from the table, as if it had just threatened you. 

There’s a knocking on the door of the interrogation room. Jim looks at you for a second before rising to open the door. You feel the warmth of salvation unwind every tense muscle you had when that door opens. Batman enters the room, heading towards you in a rush. You don’t know if he was going to hit you or not, if he knew what you had done, but you throw your arms around him anyways. Sinking into his embrace. 

“I told you, I have a friend who can help you.” Gordon says, leaving the two of you in the room. 

“It’s not safe here, for me, for any body.” You speak loud enough for only him to hear. 

Batman only nods, leading you out of the building. 

******

You observe him driving the tank-like-vehicle he owns the street with. He’s an expert at taking back routes, until eventually leaving the city all together. The road he drives down is familiar to you, one cutting between the wilderness. You’re observant of the location, and swear you’ve been there before. He makes a sharp turn into an unmarked road in the woods. It’s a bumpy ride, you hold onto to dear life as he dives the vehicle head first into mass of water. In the distance you caught sight of Wayne Manor and the pieces fall together in an instant.

You watch his unwavering face as his car is lifted into a cave. The top of his tank opens and he lifts you out of your seat, carrying you down the steps and onto solid, dry ground. You look around and see all of the technological fixtures in the cave. The cases of weapons and suits. Multiple massive computer screens face two, cushioned computer chairs. 

“All of your mysterious injuries, the nights you backed out on our dates, it all makes sense now. Bruce, you’re Batman.” You turn to him, covering you mouth with your fingers as you laugh at how obvious it was. Who else would have the funds to buy the things Batman has? 

“I wanted to tell you.” He removes his mask. The sight of an old friend relieving you. 

“I understand.” You sit at one of the computer chairs, eyeing the blank screens of his super computers. He sits beside you, removing his gloves, to take your hands in his. 

You’ve forgotten that its possible to be touched with kindness. You stare down at the circles he rubs on the back of your hand with his thumbs, comforting you with such a small gesture. 

“I never stopped looking for you, not even when I heard of what you did. I never stopped.” Because he felt guilt for what had happened. Personal ownership of your downfall. You can tell by how he is unable to look into your eyes. Wasn’t it Batman, or rather Bruce, who left the Joker in your care, originally?

“They call me the Good Doctor.” You trembled, squeezing his hands. “Did you ever find out why?” Your eyes meet his. He shakes his head, cautiously. “It was a week or so ago, I couldn’t tell you the exact time. Time just blend into one horrific hour, nowadays. One of the seconds of that hour, I was being used to really get some dirt out of a man. There was a moment ... when he recognized me from the newspaper. He kept saying over and over again that he didn’t understand why I was hurting him, because I was a good person. I had a charity. I was a good doctor. 

“Of course, the Joker shot him between the eyes once he had the information he needed. I was standing there, petrified at the acts unfolding, my reality slipping away from me. My identity being twisted and burned. All I could hear was the Joker’s laughter. He found nothing funnier than my psyche being ripped to shreds. I did what I had to ... to gain his trust enough to leave him.” You wipe tears from your face, standing from the chair. 

Venturing further into the cave, you hear Bruce follow closely behind you. You stop in front of one of his many belongings behind glass cases. He sets a hand on your shoulder, immediately you turn to face him. 

“When you asked me to leave with you that night, I had a flash of a fantasy. Me and you, escaping Gotham. We’d walk the streets of Paris, drinking coffee on the balcony of our chateau. I wanted nothing more than to run away with you. I should have ran away with you.” You let him kiss you then. You let him kiss you passionately, fitting his body against yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling the groves of spine. And I takes only a second for you slip the needles out of your sweater-cuffs, stabbing him in the correct two nerves. 

Bruce pushes you away, taking a step back then becoming overwhelmed with horror as he realizes that was the last movement he could make. Only his eyes may move, now. You stare at him, letting him see you, truly see you. 

“But, if I had left with you, Bruce, I would have stayed just human.” You walk to the glass case that held kryptonite. You break the glass, grabbing the clump of glowing green rock. You had heard rumors of Batman having the weakness of the entire Justice League, in case any one of them went rogue. All of Gotham knew these rumors, yet it is only you who acted on them. “The Joker helped me understand that I am so much more than that. I am beyond just human, now. My god, the rumors are true. It really does tingle in your fingers.”

You turn to him, slipping the kryptonite into your sweater pocket. Stepping up to him you reach into his utility belt to get the key for his ride. You give him a kiss on his frozen cheek, sliding your hands around his neck, tapping on the needles that caused him immeasurable agony, all of which he cannot show in his temporary paralysis. 

“Look what you have made me into, Bruce.” You bite at his earlobe. “You ... you created this.” You remove the needles swiftly, watching him flop to the floor like a wet blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, when I start writing I have no idea where the story is going and I couldn't be happier at this rate. I am so glad that you had taken the time to read my work! Thank you for your time and interest! We're getting close to the finale, folks!


	5. Jerome is Just a Man

You watch the waves change shades of amber, pink and purple, as it reflects the rising sun. The night has broken and you stand on the docks at the border of Gotham. The batmobile sits behind you, dead and waiting. You stand with your bare feet in the water, lightly splashing against your ankles. You wanted to feel the chill of the ocean air, therefore you ditched the sweater to wear only that thin white tank-top given to you. You had left the kryptonite bundled in the sweater on the hood of the batmobile. Your petals have been torn, leaving you a wilted staff with thorns. In your mind you keep asking yourself: _what have I done?_  


Since the moment you were taken, you had told yourself you’d escape the Joker. Play his game until you can runaway, cleanly. You bit the hands of security, safety. Bruce could have saved you. You left him like a useless rag doll. Digging your nails into your cranium, you scrunch your wild hair, staring into the deep unknown of the ocean. The moment he needed something, you leaped to the task. You calculated an immediate response that might not have worked had it all just been rumors. Did you hope they were rumors? You truly wonder if you would have hurt Bruce either way. Just for the fun of it, return with the bat to please your Joker. 

His car screeches to a stop, you step a further into the waves. The sea water licks at your knees and you hope Aquaman can feel the vibrations of your deeds and drag you under. The ground crunches beneath his shoes, he heads towards you. Breathing in his silence, it frightens you that he had not laughed at the sight of the batmobile, unarmed and empty. When the steps come closer, you turn. 

That face of his, commonly twisted in madness and determination, a smile to stop all reason, now rests in withering rage. He removes his jacket, leaving it on shore. He strides towards you with an expression unlike ones you’ve seen him wear before. His normal dark eyes are smeared, had he been crying? His red lips a mess, had he been screaming? You move further back into the chilling water, your teeth chattering as your lips begin to turn blue. The waves are violent against you. 

“The kryptonite is wrapped in the sweater,” You holler over the waves, pointing your soaked hand towards the batmobile. He isn’t stopping, he’s going to drown you. The water rises to your hips. Your body sways in the ocean’s vigor. “Kryptonite scalpels, I can’t believe you fell for that.” You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to hide a smile. The waves slap at your ribs. “If I told you my actual plan, you would’ve never allowed it.” You feel the water rise to your armpits. He’s close now, almost close enough to reach out and touch you. You halt there, waiting for him. Maybe he’ll just drown you. In saltwater, it only takes two minutes to die from submersion. You’re curious to see how long two minutes really are when dying. He snatches either side of your face, jerking you against him. “What’s wrong, sleeping beauty? Can’t take a joke?” You laugh an inch away from his face. 

His hands clutch around your neck, but he can’t stop your laughing. You heartbeat is racing to meet the finish line. You’re grinning, running fingers through his hair as tender as you did on the days you were his keeper. You’re wondering if the water slipping down his face is from the ocean spray, or if they are tears. Because you had never truly laughed, nor smiled, until now that you are relieved by the prospects of your death. Now that you have the opportunity to be away from him. 

He shoves you beneath the waves. 

You close your eyes in this bath of ice water. You remember seeing him lying helpless in the hospital bed and there was nothing there to behold but a busted up man. 

You can feel the water begin to put pressure against your lungs. When he opened his eyes you were his first sight and he wanted you to see him. He needs you to see him as no one else has. 

You swallow saltwater. You're thrashing in the torture, yet the memory of his fingers finding your body on that dance floor, the night he took you, manages to put your mind at ease. 

Your heartbeat is in your head, and you listen to it stagger. You see him, Jerome. He’s just a man, and you love him. You’ll take anything you can get from him, even this gracious gift. 

You feel nothing anymore. Not even death’s cold embrace.

You awake with a strong inhale, tossing over onto your side to cough up saltwater. The side of your face presses against the grime and pebbles, and you wonder how on Earth you made it to dry land. You're immediately rolled onto your back. The Joker smooths out your hair before holding your face to for you to look up at him. He presses his lips into yours, no longer for breathing the air back into your lungs. He kisses you in an act of regret. He pulls away, lifting you from the ground with him. He shouts for Johnny to torch the batmobile, as you are still in his arms. 

“We’re going home.” 

******

He rips the damp clothes from your body as though they were offensive to him. Johnny had taken the kryptonite to the Scarecrow, leaving you with the Joker at his penthouse that he had never trusted you enough to take you to prior. He growls deeply, shoving you onto his silken bed as you listen to the sound of his belt coming undone, zipper being dragged, your body rising in goose bumps in anticipation. 

Sliding on top of you, you tear your nails down his back. He throws back his head, moaning in how you break a few layers of skin. Snatching your hair he yanks your head back to trace the length of your neck with his tongue. You thaw in his heat, pushing your hips against him. His other hand slips down your torso, entering you as he bites onto your neck. You kiss him first, melting in the hunger of the kiss he returns. You gasp into his lips as he thrusts himself inside of you. 

He grabs your neck, as though he feared you would look away from him. He stares into your eyes, fucking you hard and slow in an act of dominance or apology, you couldn’t tell. Devouring your moans in a passionate meeting of lips, he quickly rises, taking you with him. You dance on his lap, riding him, meeting his starving gaze. Your hands searching him as much as his searches you. You want to rip him apart as badly as he wants to keep you in shreds. A hateful, maddening love that neither of you really understand nor want to. You only know as much as he does, and that is that nothing in either of your lives has ever felt as good as this. 

Hands coiled around you neck he pushes you into the bed and tries to break you. You wrap your legs around his back and he wants to make sure you feel him in your entirety. Heat rises from your thighs, drifting up to your cheeks. You barely breathe in the ecstasy of your climax, feeling light headed and worn. He comes inside you with a shiver, unable to stop thrusting until he caught his breath. Both of you stay panting, unable to say a word. Only eyes may speak. And they speak in skeptical observations. Trying to find the lie in the other's stare. When all that was found is honesty, you rise to meet him in a tender kiss, sinking into the bed with him. 

******

The sun is high in the sky. Light floods through the windows. You’re tangled in the sheets, watching him give into his exhaustion. You’re just as exhausted as he is, but you won’t sleep until you ask. 

“You’re going to drive Superman insane, aren’t you?”

His eyes still closed, he laughs horribly. His arms wrap around you, hiding you under the sheets, pulling you against his bare body. The laughing dies down quicker than normal, and you wonder if he is watching the same premonition of terror that you are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having way too much fun writing this. Thank you for all of the support through kudos, comments, and bookmarks. It makes writing this piece all the more enjoyable. Thank you, again for reading!!


	6. Hilarious

You had come to understand the many men that make-up the Joker. Each one was loved by you. Even then, knowing fully what his plans were. To bring upon all the shades of the 

apocalypse. The only man who could and would bring down the God who walked among the people. It was too easy, for him at least. Far easier than the corruption of Batman. But 

this alone would give him exactly what he had always wanted. 

You knew the man who laughed in hysterics. To the beats of his machine gun, painting the clubs in crimson. Bodies fell like popped balloons. He tossed his head back in the 

carnage, as though to bathe in death was all that can wash him. 

What of the man who snarled in the bright of your eyes? Lack of eyebrows pressed into a scowl, at the apathy of his violence. Hand on your neck, wanting to break that 

windpipe so he wouldn’t feel anymore. You were a seed of second thought. The bringer of this overpowering emotion he spent his whole life trying not to feel. If only you wouldn’t 

look at him like that. If only you wouldn’t touch him that way. His hand snatched your mouth, to stop the whispers of affection. 

He was on his knees. He had his arms securely wrapped around your waist. His head buried just below your naval. Silent streams of tears rushed to meet at his chin. No 

questions asked, only running of fingers through his hair. He gave you the gift of his honesty. 

The days were ticking closer to the end. 

It haunted you during the moments of intimacy. He refused to make love to you. He wouldn’t even fuck you, he only wanted to possess you. To stain you with his memory. 

Fingers dug into your arching back. Heavy breathing smeared onto your flesh. Penetrate your lips with his, wanting to devour you, wanting you to devour him. He could leave scars 

with how tightly he held you in every climax. Your toes curled, your head thrown back, staring into the future and seeing his death. You couldn’t live with his ghost. 

“Stay with me. Let’s leave to Southern America where are names are lost. Don’t do this.” You grasped his face, ignoring Lois Lane who struggled with the chair in the 

background. He needed to see you, and you only. “I have no feelings for the people on this planet. I could watch them all burn in a nuclear blaze. But to lose you, that I will not 

suffer.” 

There was no other way to describe his face other than unbearably human. How did you soften his eyes and put pain behind them? You had never seen this man. It stuffed 

needles into your heart, gross anxiety that hope often brings. He could have said yes. It was there behind his lips. It had to be. The scarecrow serum mixed with kryptonite should 

have been tossed aside, a shattered tube of glass on the warehouse floor. 

“Stay with me.” You beseeched one last time. 

One had touched your cheek, the other pressed a small pill into your mouth. He kissed you hard, pushing the pill down your throat with his tongue. You swallowed, and 

knew. The pain started with your spine, stiffening it, twisting it. Your muscles tensed, strangling every inch of you. You tumbled to the ground, twitching, agony stopping any 

promise of screams. You pushed out a smile, even a few weak chuckles, staring up at his dark eyes that have been waiting this entire time to watch you die. To rid himself of the 

burden. 

******

Johnny was the one to wake you. You heard him shouting at the truck driver who was transporting you in a body bag and him in a steel seat. You cried dramatically in the black, 

clawing at yourself instead of the zipper of the body bag. You should have been dead. How were you not dead? Johnny raced to open the bag, to look down at your agonized face. 

“No shit, I can’t believe he did it.” His eyes had never been so wide. 

Not the tricking Superman into killing his own pregnant wife. Not the madness he inflicted the boy in red and blue to go about Metropolis, slaughtering dozens. Not the 

laughing in Superman’s face, as the alien ripped through his chest to grab hold of the Joker’s heart. Crushing it in the weight of his hand. 

The only thing to shock anyone, was the intricate plan he created to allow you to live. That he somehow convinced Poison Ivy to give him the pill he needed to spare your life. 

He didn’t know you could hear him whispering confessions when you pretended to sleep. He told you he loved you only when he thought you were in a state of unconsciousness, 

and that was enough to turn Johnny pale. 

“How did you convince him?” Johnny folded his arm over his chest. 

You only stared. There was no convincing, no manipulation. In fact, you hardly did a thing to guarantee your survival. You’re as baffled as he is. You didn’t rise from the body 

bag. You stayed there as the driver headed deeper into Southern Peru. 

******

The people came to see you, for surgery and treatment in the living room of your dilapidated home. Many called you a Saint, all paid you in food, beverage, clothes, and trade. You 

were saving lives. Each breath of survival stunned you. You are thanked instead of feared. 

Bruce was the first to find you. He sat at the kitchen table in the dark. His Batman costume was missing, revealing the age that had swept over him in a matter of months. The 

world had aged with the new reign of Superman. A new military force that served him and him only. Hunting down the very last of the Justice League. It’s only the law of 

Superman, now. Batman may only exist in the shadow of memories. 

“He’ll find you.” Bruce’s raspy voice was a touch of an apparition. “Why did you do it?” 

The question wasn’t _why did you let the Joker carry out his plan_ , or _why did you steal Bruce’s kryptonite_. It was _why did you love the Joker? _You__

__smiled to yourself, cleaning dishes in your sink. A shrug of your shoulders was the only response you gave him._ _

__“I could use someone like you.” He paid no mind to the dissatisfactory response._ _

__“I heard you and Harley Quinn are working together to find the last bit of kryptonite. Johnny has a lot of friends you know.” Your smile widened._ _

__“None of them are as valuable as you are. How do you not want retribution?” His hands curled into fists._ _

__“Retribution for what?” You laughed._ _

__******_ _

__The world was plagued exactly as intended. Soldiers marched with the mark of Superman on their biceps. They crept all the way into Peru, where you patiently waited to be taken_ _

__home. You even made sure to look at every soldier you passed, hoping one would recognize your face._ _

__Because it was too much to bear. His memory was a tattoo on every crevice of your mind. Those words. The laughter. The memory of his touch sliding up your inner thigh._ _

__His breath on the back or you neck. He called your name. To follow him. No regular death would do. You had to be patient. Slow. It had to be carried out in only one way._ _

__******_ _

__The sky cracks open. Sound barrier rippling with the intrusion. He is coming in like a meteor. The people of the town you took residence in, scatter. You are all that is left in the_ _

__open. And you’re pointing, guffawing at the twisted face of Superman. He plummets before you, stomping slowly in your direction. His hand is firm around your neck. You stare_ _

__down at him with a smile as his eyes begin to glow red._ _

__“Hey, since your single now. How about a kiss?” You choke out._ _

__One small joke, Superman sees the face of the Joker. His eyes were building up the red energy soon to take your head and turn it to ash. It happens so slowly, the oncoming_ _

__of death._ _

__You could feel the Joker’s hands sliding up your ribs, slowly pushing up your breasts until resting at your collarbones, holding you as he used to. His lips tickle your ear. You catch_ _

__his scent in these final moments._ _

__“Funny, right?” His kisses you on the jaw before the burning flash of red._ _

__The perfect punchline._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading until the end! It's been a blast.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read my piece! More is to come!


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